


in three-quarter time, wishing you and yours

by wherethewhiled



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: After Getting Together, Established Relationship, F/F, Family Dynamics, Holidays, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethewhiled/pseuds/wherethewhiled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's their first Christmas together.  Emma isn't ready, and Regina isn't sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in three-quarter time, wishing you and yours

**Author's Note:**

> my very unorganized feelings about the holidays, about Emma and Regina being a couple, about them doing family and all of that mixed up anxiety in celebrating being together. it's a bit melancholy, it's a bit sappy; prepare accordingly.
> 
> must thank a post i read on tumblr (but didn't save and that's my fault) about Emma and Regina being suited to give each other happiness.

She’s up first.

It’s too early, but it’s snowing outside, soft grey light coming in from around the heavy drapes, a picturesque window overlooking a neat, cardboard cutout town, and a painful lump builds in her throat, packed in tight, and Emma knows; things haven’t changed.

There isn’t a string of lights around her heart, it hasn’t grown three sizes too big — eight hours into the 25th of December and she’s still just her.  (Even with the kid she gave up just down the hall, and a tree with presents under it just down the stairs.)

She rolls over and pulls the covers up and over her chin, sinks further into their warm bed and all of it’s rolling white cotton.  Barely an arm’s length away, Regina is sound asleep on her back and from her hiding place Emma gapes …

… and Regina  _is accessible_ , her peaceful face tilted away, a sidelong view, her features turned too far to really define, but she’s here, it’s her, and Emma smiles the tiniest bit.

—

“Mnn, you’re on my arm,” she murmurs sleepily.

Emma ignores the elbow nudging her, snuggles in closer, and continues sloppily kissing up under Regina’s lifted chin and down her throat.

“Dear, we won’t have time.  Henry’ll be up soon.”

“He can wait.”

Regina laughs out, her chest bouncing.  “He’s your son.  He won’t wait.”

Smirking, Emma undoes the first two buttons of Regina’s pyjama top.  “So, don’t make me wait,” she rebuttals, clambering on top and running her hands up Regina’s crooked-up arms, pressing them into the pillow.  “Don’t you want to open your very special present right now?”

Even as she’s arching her back, obviously enjoying the necking, Regina snorts, “you mean your ratty old t-shirt and pyjama shorts?”  For the sass, Emma merely sucks harder on that extra sensitive spot and right on Regina’s breathing revs heavily around a softly pitched groan.  “Emma, the door … you have to lock the door.”

Emma just shushes her and pushes the pyjama bottoms, the panties partway down those thighs and slips two fingers right in.

“ _Oh_ , Emma.”

“Yes?” She kisses down between the open fabric, strokes her thumb up through how warm and wet Regina is and rubs her clit. “Like this?”

“ _Slow_  —” she gasps and brushes back Emma’s bedhead curls, hands solid on either side, “slow down, Emma.  Let me see you.”

That gets her attention.  Looking up sheepishly, Regina’s open face greets her like a still lake, brows furrowed, mouth apart, but her eyes, her immeasurable eyes welling over, enormous with happiness, and Emma hums out a bright spot in her chest, warming up her own sometimes difficult eyes.  Regina continues affectionately tucking hair around her ears.  “Morning,” Emma says.

“Yes, good morning.”

Emma pulls her sticky hand out from under the sheets and reaches up for Regina, fingers spreading over her neck, thumb slipping over the bluff of her jaw bone and landing on the pulse of her — beating, beating,  _steadily beating —_  shuffling up, Emma licks at the smears of arousal she’s made, tasting Regina over the flat of her tongue, salty skin and needing her.  Soon, loving arms wrap full around her and their bodies are back in rhythm again, rocking like boats docked together, knocking time to time, rolicking waves lapping their rounded bottoms when a boisterous voice jolts them out of their heated reverie.

“Moms!  I’m making the coffee and hot chocolate.  So hurry up.  Get down here.  It’s Christmas!”

Still gaping at the door, Emma scoffs as the loud running down to the kitchen turns into purposefully loud banging of cupboards and pots.  “Did he just yell at us from the top of the stairs?”

“Right, and where did he learn that from,” comes the chastising on a hot breath along her throat.

“Clearly, you,” Emma says and kisses and kisses Regina’s disagreeing lips.

“Dear, we have to get up.”

“No, no, come on,” she protests and lays another heavy one on her “… he can wait, we’ll be quick.”

Regina sucks in, hums a pouting note, “I told you we wouldn’t have time … and you know I don’t like it like that …”  Pulling back and kissing her nose, Regina pats her on the ass and begrudgingly Emma rolls off with a soft wallop to the mattress.  “We’ll make time, later.”

“You used to, you know.”

“That was before we liked each other,” Regina tosses over her shoulder before rounding into their bathroom.

Her skin quiets down and she sweeps her arm over Regina’s side of the bed, the covers flipped away, the sheets already cooling.  She doesn't feel like getting up.  Suddenly, the rest of the day plops on her like an avalanche over a cliff and Emma has to tell her lungs to expand and squeeze and squeeze — a chore, and she squeezes again.  Her next breath in is like popping up from drowning.

Quietly, she listens to drawers roll, the faucet turn, and the sashay of a toothbrush.  “What d’you wanna do after presents?”

Regina finishes brushing and rinsing before answering, “Henry wants to take you sledding.”  

 _Shit, right_  — because he’s still a kid — and it’s cold outside and she’s only ever been sledding once.  Emma gulps, thinking of the fun she’ll be expected to be having.  Moments later, Regina reappears in the doorway, pyjama top buttoned up all the way again.  “It’s supposed to be a surprise, so act surprised when he tells you,” she says, rubbing in lotion over her knuckles and eyeing her with a strange expression.

Emma nods.  “Yeah, sure.”

“It’s a hill we used to go to every year, and he’s been talking about it all week,” she continues while crossing in front of the bed to the window, shoving apart the drapes.  “Then I thought we could have a late lunch before we have to start preparing for tonight.”  Tying a robe closed, Regina lingers on her for another awkward beat, then covers it up with a tight-lipped smile before throwing the other robe from the chaise at her.  “Don’t be too long, we have a full day,” she says softly on her way out of their bedroom.

Flat on her back, Emma stays in bed, and after a minute or so of heaviness rifles for even a little bit of merry.  Biting her lip, straining, she still only comes up empty; somehow even now her heart isn’t any more capable than it used to be in those crappy makeshift homes and stolen cars.

So, she isn’t going to be able to pull today off.

—

More than anything, she’s disappointed in herself — it’s taken so long since she first barged in on their lives (and she doesn’t know how to be okay feeling both a bit guilty and a bit meant to be about that) for the three of them to be under the same roof, officially doing the whole-nine yards including breakfast, and bills, and every major holiday.  She’s seen the relief in Regina to have regular back, planning and cooking and tickling their boy pink over shortbread and chocolate peppermint cookies, and Emma’s more thankful than ever, she takes in air because they’re beaming every day instead of outrunning curses.  

But it’s the attention, it’s hard, because she doesn’t like birthdays either (or so she keeps having to remind herself).  

Henry’s laughing and drowning in ripped up wrapping paper.  Regina smiles back indulgently from her armchair, and Emma keeps to sipping on her coffee, her bottom lip glued to the brim of the mug Regina had pressed into her clammy palms earlier, accompanied by a whispered  _it’s got whiskey in it_ and a peck on the cheek before following Henry out to the twinkling tree and crackling fire.

Emma scoots around a bit to make a more comfortable dip in the couch when a pre-made bow hits her square in the face.

“Henry,” Regina attempts to reprimand, her voice peppered in good humour, “you’re not getting any more sugar today.”

“Mom, it’s Christmas!”  Scuttling through the crinkling paper, he pulls out two more boxes, tied up in glittered gold ribbons.  “Here, Mom open, and this one’s for you, Ma.”

Her lungs flutter like they’re trying to break free and fly off and she sighs nervously.  “Thanks, kid,” she squeaks and falters.  Going off Regina’s gleaming soft eyes, she carefully sets down her mug and plunks the box in her lap.  “You get this for me?”

“I had help,” he says, excitedly.

Lifting the lid, inside is a pair of jeans, skinny dark blue denim, and she smiles out finally and all at once for the first time since dragging herself downstairs because there aren’t monsters or making up or big expectations in there.  His present isn’t some sappy means to an end, but something truly simple and honest and the family she fits in.  

“Mom said you’d like them.  Do you like them?”

“I really do.”  Taking them out, she chuckles, “but really, I think your mom picked them out because she likes looking at my butt in tight jeans, am I right?”

Regina blushes, and bites back a smile.  “My turn,” she says, picking neatly at the tape on her box.

  
—

  
“I thought we weren’t doing gifts for each other?”

“We’re not, the jeans are from Henry.”  Regina’s attentively tracking Henry’s trudge back up the hill.  Still, she leans in all the same to fit their gloved hands together before admitting, “but I did buy you something you can open later.”

“Okay, because I got you something too, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be upset.”

The back of her neck melts all the way down and in between her shoulders then, because silently, Regina tips in just to bite and soothe her ear with an open kiss in response, and Emma has to really think about floating to keep her head from flopping back.

  
—

  
By the time they make it back to the manor, Henry’s stomach is hilariously grumbling in tandem with her own and Regina rolls her eyes as they randomly pull ingredients around peals of easy cheer and make up several  _house special_  sandwiches, convincing Regina to close her eyes and compare half-cuts.  Eventually, she shoos Henry upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes.  She’s got her hands in beneath the skin of a turkey when the bell rings.

"Oh, god.  That better not be your parents," Regina grouses.

“It’s not.  I told them five o’clock,” Emma says, finishing up the rinsing before drying her hands on a towel — the bell, again — smacking Regina’s ass on the way, Emma jogs out to get the door.

It’s her parents, in coordinated knit hat and scarves.  “Oh, hey.  You guys are really early.”  Her heart picks up uncomfortably as they impatiently blanket her in an double-hug, like a loose pinball knocking erratically.

“Merry Christmas, honey.  We wanted to surprise you and Henry,” her mother announces exuberantly, and her father’s broad hand cups the back of her head, pins her in; Emma has to ball her hands and squish her fingers tight together.

It’s a long hug.  Giving it a generous three-count, Emma squirms free (instantly like she’s a kid again and meeting new foster families over and over again) remembers to plaster on an extra good smile to make up for it.  But then she catches from out her periphery the giant red bow on the wooden sled propped up against the front door, and it just becomes a lot of teeth.

“It’s for Henry,” he declares.

“We were thinking we could go sledding together,” her mother says, bouncing on her heels.

Emma’s mouth falls open and she hesitates and her back cramps up.  “We just went, actually,” she says stiffly, and their abrupt and obvious disappointment makes her scratch that soft spot under her ear.  “But come in, yeah, maybe you guys can make snowmen in the backyard, or something.  Henry will like that.”

“You don’t want to join us?  Do something as a family?”  Mary Margaret’s pleading is soft and tiny (and her mother still doesn’t ever include Regina in any way, won’t even say her name ever).

Pointedly bolting their door, Emma shouts out, “Henry!”

“Emma!”

“Sorry,” she replies loudly back toward the kitchen without skipping a beat and takes the foyer stairs two at a time.

Her parents follow gingerly.  “What was that about?”  

“Oh, I’m yelling less,” she explains and shrugs and her stomach knots up because she can see Mary Margaret processing something that isn’t to her liking.

"Good for you," her dad offers, earnestly.

Hearing the familiar sound of Henry’s sneakers upstairs, she grins and holds it and  _for fuck’s sakes,_ _hurry up, would you?_   Finally her kid comes flying down around the bend of their grand staircase and the foyer explodes in excessively kind recognizable chatter about the holidays, and being grandparents, and Henry tells them  _Mom’s busy_ but he’ll let her know the two of them are here and then he can show them his presents from earlier.  It all happens in a flurry, and nodding like an idiot at them as they walk off without her, Emma’s suddenly left standing in her damp jeans in the middle of the foyer and feeling lost.

Tapping her fingers on her leg, she decides on climbing back upstairs to change into a dry pair of jeans so she can go shovel the walk.

  
—

  
“Emma, I need your help downstairs.”  Regina sounds a little overstrung, so she quickly pops out of their closet with a guilty scrunch of her nose.

“I didn’t mean to take so long …” but it doesn’t matter because Regina isn’t breathing, her mouth is open, but she’s isn’t letting air out, she’s just staring, her dark eyes glistening.  “Like it?”

Regina’s head tips over, and she swallows carefully as her eyes follow the tailored lines of Emma’s dress.  “Cap-sleeves, off-white, lace overlay …” she reels herself in towards Emma, places her open hands over the neckline, settles a thumb in the hollow at the bottom of her throat.  “I’m impressed.”

“I can dress nice if I have to,” Emma says and pulls their bodies all the way in place again.

“More than nice,” Regina compliments softly before pressing their lips in ever so sweetly for a kiss.  Her thumb affectionately wipes the lipstick from Emma’s mouth after.

Circling an arm around, Emma unzips the heavy oxblood wool (she’s been paying attention to the little things Regina prattles about) and off Regina’s fretful hum she assures, “I know, later.”  The sides of their faces touch and mush together as Emma stops above the bend of her back and sneaks a hand in beneath the material.  “Just need to touch you for a bit.”

Regina sighs.  “I really do need you.”

“Sorry, I know, I’ll keep them busy.”

“I’m not talking about that.”  Regina discloses every syllable like small missives directly into Emma’s ear; there’s an urgency to the way she’s doing it, of making up long distances.  “I’m talking about right now, and about —” her breathing hitches so unexpectedly then, the motion sways the both of them like a freezing gust blowing through tall trees.  Not really sure what’s happening all of a sudden, they simply breathe against each other for the next several moments, and Emma wrinkles her brow as she listens to Regina getting teary and trying to hold back something big she is feeling.  

Emma moves her hand soothingly.  Briefly, she thinks maybe they could cancel tonight.

Straightening back after a couple minutes, Regina dabs her cheeks and sniffles.  “Keep them busy, all right?”  Her lashes are damp and heavy as she blinks.  ”Oh, and darling,  _please._ Keep them away from my kitchen.”

“I got you,” Emma says.

Regina nods, “I know,” and brightens her face as best she can on the back of a small smile.  “Come here,” she orders, and over by her dressing table, she plucks out a pair of mother of pearl studs.  “Put these on.”  

Emma does as she’s told, then orders back “turn around,” and zips the dress up.

“Now go.  Before your mother starts snooping around.  I’m going to freshen up.”

Before she loses herself in the powders and liners, Emma prompts her to wheel back around, thumbs lingering in the notches of Regina’s elbows.  ”We’re good, right?

Regina forgets her mirror and looks on her, fondly.  ”More than good.”

  
—

  
The whole house is getting overly warm now with the fire roaring and the people and the cooking, and after making her one big round, settling everyone in, Emma sticks to the sideboards.  Every now and then she moves around a bit to keep people from pinpointing her.  

 _Eleven_ , she counts, not including Pongo, sniffing around their ankles.  Then she remembers to add herself and Regina in her kitchen, and it’s thirteen all together.    

“I can’t believe Mom said yes to having all these people over,” Henry says and leans back against the sideboard right up next to her.   _He’s her kid all right._

Emma chuckles as she surveys all the joyful faces.  “Well, your mom knows how important family is to you and me.  It’s important to her too.”

“Want one?”  Henry offers up an hors d’oeuvre and looking over, matching smiles, the two of them munch in perfect peace.  “Are you having fun?”

Emma brushes some pastry crumbs from her mouth, and thinks seriously about it for a couple seconds.  “Yeah, actually.  I mean, it’s a lot of people and it isn’t easy sometimes — you know, it’s just the three of us usually and I like that better.  But you’re happy, your mom’s happy … all these people are happy to see us … what more could I ask for?”  He seems satisfied that she isn’t sugar-coating it (because in this household, a promise is a promise).  “Hey, I’m sorry your dad couldn’t make it.”

“It’s okay.  He’s my dad, but I don’t have to see him every time we do something.”  He hunches his shoulders and carefully splits his third hors d’oeuvre; a bit of flaky pastry floats to the hardwood and he makes a face as he passes half —  _oh definitely Regina’s kid, too._   “Plus, it would’ve been awkward, and that would’ve ruined Christmas for Mom,” he concludes then, all on his own, and they munch some more.  

 _How has she not noticed before?_  — how much of a team they have become; a family unit, an actual triangle, the strongest shape; the ways they go to bat for each other every day without having to make giant leaps or grand gestures, looking out for each other in the small ways, the small gaps that could bottom out a person.  “You don’t think it’s awkward with your grandparents here?”

“That’s different.  That’s funny awkward, like holidays are supposed to be.”

“Tell that to your mom,” Emma says, bumping his shoulder, laughing lightly.  Her heart lets go, opens the fist it has been making.  “I better go check on her.  Manage the room, kid.”

Henry rolls his shoulders and off he goes without complaint, and it’s a miracle.  He’s their miracle.

Pushing through the traffic door to the kitchen then is the best decision she’s made all day because it’s Regina’s favourite room and it practically hums with her.  She’s in a pale apron, hovering over bowls and an elaborate layout of ingredients.  Behind her, there are pots bubbling and pans sizzling and a lamb roast resting on the counter, and she’s moving back and forth both efficiently and languidly, a dropped in ease in her hips.

“Watch out,” she says, a hot pan in her hand, as Emma gets closer and surrounds her while she empties the glazed carrots into a dish.  

Emma spreads open one hand over that special place in between Regina’s waist and the small of her back, and uses the other to pluck out a steaming yellow carrot.  “Oh, hot … oh damn, that’s good.  Here have some.”  Emma points the half-eaten length at those plump lips, and Regina has to bite into her own smile for a moment before biting the offered food — and they just go on giggling and touching in the far end of their kitchen, their bodies the limit of their very private circle.

“Brussels sprouts, chestnuts, pancetta and sage.”

“Really?  Worst foster family ever then, because I hated eating them as a kid.”

“Well, that’s over now,” Regina says, and Emma’s hand casually lowers over her ass and down her thigh.  “Emma, darling.  You have to keep your hands off of me, or we won’t have any dinner tonight.”

“I told you we should’ve taken some time out to fuck this morning,” Emma mumbles around another sprout half, bright and flavourful.

Huffing out her nose, Regina abruptly turns and pushes her arms out between them.  “Go,” she instructs, and points to Emma’s very own naughty corner.  “Stand by the fridge — stop it —” and her expression bursts into that adorable mix of hard-line and blissful as she slaps Emma’s persistent hands — “I mean it, before I burn the sauce.”

“I can help, you know.”

“Yes, by staying in that corner, or I’ll kick you out to socialize.”

“I like it when you’re bossy,” Emma says and laughs so easily as Regina fumbles with a pot lid.  Settling down, she hops up next to the sink and spills the bits of gossip she’s been hearing from Mary Margaret all afternoon while Regina cooks (because she loves her and it smells exactly like how she pictured home would be).

  
—

  
Dinner is lively — her heart and her stomach are safe and sound, and it’s hard to believe she’s the same person that once spent Christmas day fighting over a family-size bag of chips and a two litre Dr. Pepper.  The only thing is she’s sitting too far from Regina, three places too far, but she’s too afraid to complain.

Between passing the stuffing and sprouts, Emma manages to catch her steady eyes and the nagging behind her lungs lessens, the pictures of past dinners lose color and fade to barely recognizable splotches, and her troubled upbringing and how much it’s looming over the festive feast takes a backseat, because they keep looking each other’s way, staring long and hard enough for people to notice, get uncomfortable or snicker knowingly.  Henry kicks her under the table after a while because Mary Margaret is asking her about what she put in the stuffing and she says, “Regina made everything actually, so you should ask her.”  Looking to the head of the table again, Regina’s eyes are downcast and back to cutting her lamb.  The meat goes in her mouth elegantly, and the fork pulls out clean.  Emma grins goofily to herself, and looking on her own plate, puts a hunk of lamb in her mouth too.

Nearly two hours later, Henry hops up to help serve dessert.  She’s itching to get up too but then good old Archie offers to lend a hand and instead Emma steps up to keep the table seated and entertained, protect and provide mother and son some time together, if only a small pocket.  As a plate of ice cream and sticky toffee pudding is set in front of her, she notices the little extra she got.  

She also notices how quiet Regina has gotten for much of dessert and her knees get jittery, she’s so damn far away.

  
—

  
“There you are.”  Emma slowly makes her way into the barely lit study, both hands behind her, hiding a sprig of mistletoe.  Regina remains still, standing oddly in the middle of the room, watching the snow drifting outside, a glass of cider by her lips.  “Dishes are clean, mixed up some eggnog, everyone’s getting comfortable in front of the fire …” her reflection in the glass pane is expressionless and blue against the night sky.  

The rosy tickle in Emma fizzles out and she tentatively lays her fingertips on Regina’s upper back.  Reconsidering, she firmly wraps her whole hand over the sloping hill of her shoulder and hangs on.  “Everything okay?”

Facing her finally, Regina breathes in deeply and slumps tiredly.  Her eyes searching, searching for a north star in Emma’s features to reorient herself, she daintily loops a wayward blonde curl around an ear.  “It’s been a long day.”  

“Thank you, by the way.”  Reading between the lines of Regina’s face isn’t easy, but Emma tries and tries.  Soberly, she thumbs through all the small moments she picked up, didn’t get and stored throughout the day.  “I thought you liked Christmas?”  

Regina purses her lips, contemplating.  “I like you and Henry.”

Emma nods, feeling the string tug over how alike they are in the speechless places that matter most.  “Next time you need a break, come get me, okay?”  Regina’s pretty eyes flutter, so needy and scared by the enormity of having each other, Emma hastily pulls on her arm to anchor her.  “Hey,” she says, her own voice wobbling.  “Look what I have …”

…  and she jiggles the mistletoe, and Regina laughs out, the sound all broken open, golden and rounded.  They are well-suited to making one another happy, she thinks.

Emma grabs the cider, moves around her and clunks the glass down on the desk behind them.  Then in one grand motion swirling back, sweeping Regina in from the waist and lifting the sprig above them, Emma kisses her.  Regina moans softly, and their mouths open up to be closer, ever closer.

Before they can get inappropriate, her father walks in on them with his rumbling “Emma?” and his clumsy knock that jerks them right out of their intimate moment as he prods open the half-closed door.  But he doesn’t cover his eyes or scramble off embarrassed.  Rather he stops and curiously regards them, still holding each other, breaking into a proud smile she doesn’t understand.

“Um.  Dad?”

“Sorry,” he chuckles the apology out nervously, transferring his fascination to his socked feet.  “The fireplace needs more wood.”

“I reminded you four times,” Regina says, so near and casual, her lipstick all faded out.

“Oh, really, you remember exactly how many times?”

“Of course, dear.  That’s why I do the reminding.”

"Okay, sure, sure grandma —” Regina smacks her pretty violently on the arm — “ _Ow!_ ” and Emma can’t believe she’s still laughing because she’s been laughing all day.

Remembering they’re not actually alone right now, she glances up and David is by the doorway beaming at her.  Emma blinks quickly.  “So, uh, the wood is outside in the shed?  Here, I’ll show you.”

Regina immediately takes her hand and squeezes it.  “I’ll see you in the living room.”  Emma squeezes back twice.  Even as she turns to walk off, their hands continue holding loosely right up until she’s gone too far and their fingers have to slip apart.  They get cold without her.

Halfway down the hall however, her father claps her back and says, “she makes you laugh, Emma.  Really laugh.  I’m happy for you.”

Every organ inside her glows, like her fingers used to when she would lift them to the sun streaming into the backseat of her Bug.

  
—

  
On approaching the living room, her first thought is: she’s seeing things.  Her second: she’s seeing things.  Except she isn’t because her father’s squatted in front of the fire, looking over his shoulder and seeing the same thing — her mother and Regina in conversation.  Mary Margaret is so far out of the armchair she’s perched on she’s just about toppling into personal space.  Meanwhile, the back of Regina’s head is in view and it’s a bit distant, but she also has an arm draped over the sloped arm of the sofa, body swerving that direction, and it all seems sort of relaxed at least.  

Emma holds the door jamb as she overhears her mother talking about the chemistry lessons she’s teaching this term and how it applies to relationships.

“… explosive combination?”  Regina appears to consider for a beat or so, then bends in conspiratorially.  “If you really must know …” she says, and she looks Mary Margaret straight on, “if Emma’s upset, she gets loud and out of control.  I get cold and biting, that is, until she makes me, and then we’re yelling, and things go flying across the room, and then we’re having the best sex of our lives on the floor.”  Emma snickers and nearly cackles out loud when she sees her mother’s attentive expression flop, like an old-fashioned pratfall.  Regina drains the last bit of cider in her glass and stretches to set it on the low table in front.  “I’m kidding,” she says, dryly.

“No, you’re not,” her mother insists.

Emma promptly lopes up to the sofa.  “Hey, talking about me?” she jokes and drops her hands on Regina’s shoulders, kneading absently.

“Honey, your mother is asking about our sex life.”

“No, I’m not,” her mother squeals, scooting forward precariously.  

Recognizing the glaze in those big round eyes now, Emma’s lips split open ear to ear — her mother’s drunk. “She’s pulling your leg, Mom,” she says, exaggerating the syllables.

Mary Margaret hums suspiciously, nods comically before she sags back in the comfy leather, holding her eggnog protectively against her chin.  Regina pats Emma's hand and chuckles.  So, their kid was right; _funny awkward, that’s the difference._

Lowering over Regina’s other shoulder to hide from her mother, Emma places her lips against the corner of that perfect mouth, brushing lightly, her movements lazy in the toasty living room.  “Is it later yet?”

Regina glances across to the other sofa, checking in on their son’s sleepy form, Pongo snuggled in his lap, Ruby and Mulan flanking him.  Satisfied, she tips her face to the side some more, appreciating the closeness.  “Let me make some decaf first.  Your eggnog was a little strong.”

“Did it on purpose,” Emma says, smirking, and gives her a parting peck.  “Hurry up.”

Slipping out of her shoes, Regina passes them off first, then saunters towards the kitchen.  The shoes dangle from Emma’s fingers as she waits behind the middle sofa and takes in the fastidiously decorated room: the pine, the lights, the red and the gold and the homey touches, the knitted throws, the looming tree and  _the people_ , her newfound friends and family all assembled before her, and she swallows hard, because the lump is back, but it’s okay.

The log in the fire cracks and pops.  Roland is on his hands and knees, giggling into the fireplace.  Little August covers his ears.  “Hey, it’s okay,” Emma comforts, “you’re a real boy, remember?”  

He burrows in his father’s side and Marco ruffles his hair.  “He’s a shy boy.”

“Me too,” Emma says.

“Nah, get a couple drinks in you, whole ‘nother story,” Granny argues.  “Got any more of that eggnog?”

“I don’t think so, Regina’s making coffee.”

“No more eggnog?”  Mary Margaret pouts, and it’s all smiles, all around.

“It’s so time to cut you off,” Ruby calls across.  The on-going chit chat doesn’t stop, it hasn’t stopped; buzzes and sits warm in Emma’s stomach, like a drink, but better.

“Perfect timing,” Archie says, poking his glasses back up his nose.

Regina is back …

… back from the kitchen, swinging her hips, carrying a tray laden with cups, and cream and sugar, and a pot of coffee in her own home for people who have done her wrong, and vice versa, and she isn’t hiding or running from the facts.  She made them coffee, because they’re drunk.  Regina is truly grit and romance in ways she is only starting to comprehend.

Heading directly for the farthest side table hugging the corner Ruby’s hunkered in, Regina places the tray, straightens it, and leaning over, Regina speaks to Ruby in soft and genuine tones she reserves only for those she believes unquestionably have her back.  It’s a first for Emma, seeing them interact so intimately.  Ruby nods and grins and even gets a bashful smile back.  Folding a hand over Ruby’s forearm, Regina’s mouth moves in the shapes of  _Merry Christmas_ , and Emma supposes, that’s the biggest surprise of all, that it has been merry tonight.  

“All right, everybody,” Ruby announces, picking up the tray, and hoisting it to the low coffee table, “who wants some?  There’s tea here too.”

Regina rounds the sofa, taking her shoes back.

“So,” Emma says, bending down to pick up her own pair of heels, “you and Ruby, hey?

“She’s dependable,” is all Regina says, and coyly, and holding hands they sneak away, the room full to bursting in good cheer behind them.

Going up the stairs, Ruby’s folksy voice floats out, singing a familiar carol, and soon everyone else joins in, and the tipsy harmonies carry throughout the dim manor.   Playfully, Emma veers into Regina as they continue walking up then, teasing sweetly, “you did that, didn’t you,” and the singing follows them to the second floor and into their bedroom.

“Lock it, please,” Regina prompts and flicks on a bedside lamp.  Emma crosses to close the drapes but Regina tells her, “leave them,” so she stops and turns and stands there …

… and sometimes,  _oh sometimes_ , just seeing her is more than she can handle.

The slow, plodding melody of  _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ can be heard starting up then, muffled by the door, serenading them, incidentally, and Emma smiles so hard.  Regina struts her way over.  Emma holds her securely, and very naturally they slow dance a little.

“I haven’t given you your present,” Regina says, low and gravelly

“Is it sex related?”

Regina lightly brushes the tips of their noses together.  “I don’t keep you around just for the sex, you know.”

“Then it can wait,” Emma says, leaning further in — they don’t kiss, but their lips are loose and touching, not touching, touching, not touching.  Her heart is about ready to punch a hole through her chest wall.  “All I want is you right now.”

One after another, the dresses drop to a pool around their feet, red on textured white fabric.  Taking the lead, Emma throws the covers back and sits Regina down on the bed, in the lamp light.  Kneeling, she massages a stockinged foot, presses her lips to the top of it.  “We’re not on the clock, are we?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

The clips go one by one, then each stocking, the panties, the garters.  Looking up, Regina’s unclasping the bra herself and Emma lets out an amused little snort, doing the same before climbing up to lay across the bed beside Regina, nudging her off her elbows to her back.  They simply lay there then, for a little while, tracing the bone structure of one another on adoring fingertips, skimming over a cheek, across a collar, spreading between each rib.

Making-out, Regina eventually rolls into a position to rub along the thigh Emma’s spread out for her.  Quiet moans flutter in her throat.

"Let me … let me make you come," Emma says, and slides a hand down in between.  On a stuttered gasp, Regina grabs the back of Emma’s neck, her open mouth breathing in and out sporadically against Emma’s open mouth, hot and intimate until she’s coming and hiding in the crook of Emma’s shoulder.

Chest heaving, first thing Emma does is pick her head up to drop a kiss to the top of Regina’s head, stroking her dark hair as they pull in air.

"I want to taste you," Regina mutters, her breathing still hoarse.  Her tongue swipes at Emma’s skin in a messy kiss and already moving toward a nipple, she’s up and hovering and dotting more kisses around and around.  "Go down on you, hmm?  Do you want to come in my mouth?”  Emma’s eyes soften and go out of focus.  “Hmm?  We’re here.  The day’s over.  You’ve made it.  It’s over, darling.”

It takes her a long, slow second then, but it all adds up — “you’ve been worried about me all day, haven’t you?”  Her lungs inflate, expanding so big like the making of a brand new universe.  Emma scoops both her hands under Regina’s chin, encouraging her to be seen.  “You knew.  Making sure I had a good day, a happy day.  That’s what you did.”

Regina is breathless all over again, and suddenly, Regina is like glass, refracting light and so clear, her eyes so full and found out and relieved and embarrassed and  _how could she ever not, because she loves her_.

“You’re still doing it,” Emma says, thumb brushing over and over those protective lips, that don’t tell the whole story.  ”C’mere, oh c’mere.”

They wrap each other up tightly, their bodies mottled by moving grey flecks made by the falling snow outside, in a bed of their very own.  

It isn’t just her anymore; she’s individual and all that she’s lived, plus two now, and she feels infinite and possible.

   
—

  
They don’t get around to opening their presents until early next morning, in bed, half-naked and crossed-legged.  

Regina loops a necklace around Emma: in gold, a pair of very small pendants, the frame of a triangle, and a circle, solid.

Emma straps a saddle leather watch to Regina’s wrist.

“I’m always thinking about you, every second, so maybe now you’ll always think of me too,” she explains.

“I already do,” Regina reminds her.


End file.
